It Always Ends Bad
by Gedia Kacela
Summary: ‘It tells the story of a prostitute and the man who fell in love with her.’ Some say that love can conquer all. But for a certain Narcoleptic Argentinean, a love affair with a woman who sells herself can only end badly. (Chapter Three Up)
1. El Comienzo

It Always Ends Bad  
  
Disclaimer: It all belongs to the great and powerful Baz. I'm just playing.  
  
Nota: I've posted this fic, in its entirety, before, but have since decided to rework and repost it. Hope you enjoy.  
  
"'It tells the story of a prostitute and the man who fell in love with her.' Some say that love can conquer all. But for a certain Narcoleptic Argentinean, a love affair with a woman who sells herself can only end badly."  
  
***  
  
El Comienzo  
  
-The Moulin Rouge, 1899-  
  
The Argentinean had always been alone. For as long as he could remember, he had existed solely on his own. He had no close friends, few acquaintances, and no longer had any living family, though he had long excluded himself from them. It was only him.  
  
Of course, there had been women. Affairs, quick, brief joinings, paid whores... more often than not, he had turned to the later. The prostitutes were not like other women. They were professional, aloof, in control even while writhing beneath a sweaty body. They were safe.   
  
That was why he had come here.  
  
At the Moulin Rouge, the women were not lovers, they were business partners. Sex was merely signing the contract that money and propositions had laid out. Over the course of his time at the Moulin Rouge, he had made many such contracts, when the money left over from Absinthe and rent allowed. But he was careful. He would not fall again, would not allow the night to become anything more than sex. The women whose beds he visited were nothing to him, and that was they way they would remain. He would not fall. Not again. Not when it had ended so.  
  
In the bed next to him lay Nini Legs-in-the-Air, the most professional and heartless of the whores of the Moulin Rouge... the very reason why she was his favorite. Their joining meant nothing to her, never would. Her heart had been lost long ago.  
  
His had been shattered.  
  
They had finally exhausted themselves from hours of frenzied lovemaking, him desperate to forget, her thinking of the money that lay on the bedside table. It was amazing how one could be paid to fake passion.   
  
She slept now, her back to him. Her dark hair, loosed from its customary chignon, flowed in tousled waves over the pillows and tangled sheets that she had drawn over herself. It was not modesty the possessed her to do so, for she had none of that virtue left, but the cold. For all its electric lights, the Moulin was still frightfully chilled during the night after raw hunger had been sated.  
  
This was the time, while she slept, when he hated to look at her. He could bear her mid-coitus, with her flushed skin and flashing eyes and painted lips. He could even stand to see her dance, her muscular legs encased in black stockings and her cancan skirts flying everywhere. Anytime but now. For when she was silent and facing away from him in sleep, she looked so much like her... he tried in vain not to think of it, to dwell on his visions of her, but she always seemed to haunt him when he least wanted it.  
  
//Admit it// came the dreaded voice inside his head, the one that always accompanied her memory, //you loved her. You needed her.//  
  
"No," he whispered, though he half-wondered wondered why he even bothered denying it anymore. He was, in a sense, lying to himself by claiming that she had not consumed him completely with her passion, her fire, her life-force. She had been his undoing, as he had been hers. But unlike her, he had not yet come back together.  
  
//Admit it.//  
  
"Go away." His chocolate eyes opened and he looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see her again. She was not there. He was alone in the room with his whore.  
  
Then why could he still feel her?  
  
With a low growl he rolled over and disentangled himself from the sheets, pulling on his discarded trousers and crossing the room to stand by the window. The cold seeped up through his bare feet, startling him back to full wakefulness. He would get no sleep tonight, and even if restless repose did come, it would only bring more vivid dreams of her.   
  
He let his forehead rest against the cool glass and closed his eyes, wishing that these day-mares would not always take him back to the same time, the same beginning of the end. Why could he not remember other times? Surely his life had not begun that day in Buenos Aires, in that cursed brothel. There must have been happier times... perhaps in his youth.  
  
But he could not remember being a day under twenty-five, could not remember touching another woman before her, could recollect neither mother nor father. Had he had siblings? He didn't know. It had all begun then, at twenty-five, when he was too old to be born, yet too young to die. But young or old, that year he had done both, and both had been by the burning hand of the same woman.  
  
He felt it this time, the wash of unconsciousness. It seemed to take him slowly, as if graciously giving him time to prepare. He stumbled back, half-senseless, into the chair by the window, grasping wildly at the armrests so that he would not fall, would not break his neck in the attack.  
  
Before the blackness took him, he whispered a single word, "Roxanne," gasping out the two syllables as the woman in the corner, deathly pale and wearing her white dress as always, smiled mockingly back at him, her hand splayed across the vivid bloodstain on the front of her gown.  
  
And as always, when the blackness released him, he was standing once again outside the same brothel, feeling the same money weighing in his pocket, and the same lust tugging at his groin.  
  
Despite the voice of foreknowledge screaming at him to walk away, to hurl the handful of bills at the wretched building in defiance of Fate's cruelty, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.  
  
END CHAPTER ONE  
  
Nota Parte Dos: Forgive me for the short chapter, the proceeding one will be much longer. So far, I'm much happier with the flow of the storyline than with the original. Let me know what you think, whether or not you've read the former version.   
  
This is for Petal La-Belle-En-Cuisse, without whom I would not have been inspired to rewrite this. After reading her wonderful NA/Nini fic "You Can't Walk Away From Love," who wouldn't be inspired? 


	2. First, There is Desire

First, There Is Desire

-Buenos Aires, 1895-

The noise of the crowd hit him just as it always had, in a wash of sound, lights, and color all blended into one sublime sensation. It was indescribable, that first step into the brothel. It was vivid, alive, rippling, yet tainted with unwashed sin and debauchery, like dirt under the fingernails of the painted dancers in their diamonds and rubies.

On the dance floor, the girls, squeezed into corsets and too-tight dresses, spun and stomped with the rich Spanish beat pulsing from the corner where the band played. Their coloured skirts rose to flash garters as easily as their rouged faces flashed an enticing smile.

Upon entering, he smoothed his fingers over his beard and mustache as his eyes darted around, taking in the room. Wooden tables positioned around the floor were filled with loud, drunken men calling for more liquor and flirting shamelessly with the waitress, heedless of the gold bands that glittered on their left hands. The women flirted back, with a flip of curled hair or a tease of a touch on a hand. 

The bar was crowded as well, lined with men in various stages of failure in life. The barmaid, a _senorita_ by the name of Bella, brought smiles and tips with her ample flirtations and even more ample bosom. A smile of his own crossed his face as she set down a mug in front of an aging gentleman in a patched hat and allowed him to kiss her own the cheek for her troubles.

He made his way through the twist of tables and chairs to the bar and leaned casually against it while Bella poured another round for a group of young _canallos_ not old enough to hold their own drink. Then he thumped his fist against the counter. "_Cantinera! Conac!_"

"Ai!" she shouted back, not looking up from her work, "You can wait like the rest!"

"_Si_, but I am not like the rest, _mi hermosa_. And I had an invitation."

At the words she glanced up finally and let out a sharp laugh! "_Eres tu_!" she exclaimed, leaving the half-filled glass to saunter over. At a protest from a customer, she turned her head to deliver a rude gesture and then leaned against the bartop. "You came, you dirty sonofabitch."

He grinned. "I promised I would."

Wiping off her hands on a stained towel, she looked around. "It's not much, but better than that shit-hole I came from." She snorted and tossed the rag aside. "Speaking of which, how is it since I left?"

"_Mierde_. The new barkeep is an ugly tramp who cannot mix drinks."

She looked skeptically up at him. "In other words, she wouldn't give you free drinks."

The comment made him laugh, a loud rumbling sound from the depths of his chest. "Not a one, Bella, not a one." The song ended and the girls dispersed into the crowd in search of that night's business. "By the way, I did ask for a drink."

She raised an eyebrow and shook her head. "Uh-uh, senor, none of that. I've only just started. I must be a good girl."

He leaned further over the counter as the lights dimmed, bringing their faces closer together. "But you are no good girl, _mi_ Bella."

Her fingers twined into his curls as her voice dropped to a whisper. "You know it."

A solitary set of heels clicked heavily across the center of the dance floor. The room fell silent and all heads turned as one to see what the next act would be. What they saw was an angel who had been trapped in a brothel. Over caramel skin she wore a thin white dress that was eye-catching in its simplicity. In a room full of brightly coloured dresses and intricate, glittering details, the simplest dress is the one that is most effective. It clung tightly to her slim frame, dipping down teasingly among her breasts and flirting with her golden thighs. Long curls of black hair fell in rivers over her back and shoulders, framing kohl-rimmed eyes and ruby lips.

She raised her head, smiling coyly at her now-captivated audience, and began to sing.

"Si cuestión de confesar 

no sé preparar café 

y no entiendo de fútbol."

A murmur of laughter went through the crowd at this. She winked at one of the men in the front table.

"Creo que alguna vez fui infiel 

juego mal hasta el parqués

y jamás uso reloj 

y para ser más franca nadie

piensa en ti como lo hago yo."

Then she began to dance, a slow rhythm that first involved nothing but her hips. The movement then spread through her body, though her hips continued to sway seductively, leading the dance. The hem of her dress snaked round her legs as she moved.

White was a strange colour for a prostitute. In fact, white was rarely found in any part of this place. Dirt would cling to it and mar the brilliance of the colour, soil the purity of the material. But her dress was spotless, shocking against the grime of the walls and the smoke-filled air. White was a strange colour for a prostitute...

He felt his fingers grasp the drink in his hand with a firmer grip as he watched her. He pulled away from where he had been facing Bella and stared openly at the dancer. She moved like water, effortlessly and seamlessly. There was something haunting about her, some mystic that made him want her all the more. His hand ran over his goatee absently.

"_Bebe_?" Bella's hand stroked his cheek, drawing his attention reluctantly back to her. "You asked for a drink, _no_?"

He nodded distractedly before fishing out a few coins to lay on the table. Once again, his eyes drifted to the angel dancing provocatively through the seated guests. As she writhed her way around the room, customers would reach out to caress the flash of leg she granted them or to smack her playfully. She would answer with a roll of hips or a girlish laugh.

"You're paying?" she asked, a note of understanding tingeing her tone. He nodded again, his fingers once again convulsively smoothing his mustache. She scoffed at the motion and took the coins with a hard glance. "You needn't look pretty for her, you know. She is a whore like the rest of us. All she need see is your pocketbook." Slamming the drink down in front of him, she turned away to serve the next man.

"Wait!" he called after her.

She turned, the seductress back instead of the tiger. "_Si_?" she purred, leaning over the counter.

"_Se llama_?"

The frown returned and she dropped the purr, knowing that it would not entice him, not tonight. "Roxanne." She picked up the drink she had given him and sipped it, staring at him over the brim. "You like, no?"

"_Si._" How could he not, he wondered, watching her out of the corner of his eye. This girl... Roxanne... was beautiful, alluring, sexy. _Ai_, he wanted her, needed her.

Heaving a sigh, she set the drink down and propped her chin up on her hand. "Tell you what. Catch her after her number and tell her I recommend you."

"And?"

"And you catch any lonely stragglers out there and you send 'em to see Bella. You got it?"

He leaned over the counter and kissed her quickly on the lips. "Gracias, Bella. I can never repay you."

She arched an elegant eyebrow. "Probably not. Now mind you watch yourself with her."

"_Que_?"

"She's like a fire, that one. She burns then men she touches, and they grow addicted to the pain. It is like a drug to them." She jerked her chin in the direction of a young man staring forlornly at Roxanne. "Take 'im, for example. He's been here a week. Doesn't eat, doesn't drink, doesn't move. Just takes up perfectly good space and just watches her. She burned him, she did, and then moved on to consume her next victim. It always ends the same... badly."

"I'm not easily burned, Bella."

"I know, I know. But be careful and do not say that I didn't warn you."

Sighing, he straightened and finished off his drink. "And what do you suggest I do to avoid being burned?" he asked sarcastically.

She shrugged and turned away. "Wear gloves."

He snorted through his nose and leaned against the counter, watching her, measuring her every curve and memorizing her every movement. With a screech of the violin, her song was over and she left the stage in a whirl of her white skirt. She slunk across the room, exchanging greetings with the men and other prostitutes, and reached over the bar to pour herself a drink.

"Allow me," he said suddenly, moving towards her.

A flirtatious smile leapt to her face, replacing the look of distraction she had worn but a moment earlier. "Gracias, _senor_."

He filled the glass and stepped behind her, reaching around to hold it to her mouth. "My pleasure," he murmured, titling the glass so that the liquid poured slowly into her parted lips.

After swallowing, she pressed back against him. "Tell me, what's your name?"

He chuckled deeply. "Come now, I know you are not interested in my name, Roxanne."

She turned in his arms and glanced up at him, slightly surprised. "Ah, already a fan? I have not seen you before."

"Perhaps because this is my first time here and we have never met."

"Not the last, I hope?"

He pursed his lips to fight the smile. "We shall see."

She laughed at this, reaching up to run her hands through his hair. "Come, _senor_. You know my name but I know not what to call you."

The smile escaped and burst full across his face as he moved away from her. "We have a dance!" he called out, motioning to the small band in the corner. He turned back towards her and offered his hand. "A tango."

Coyly, she accepted his hand. Her touch raced up his arm like wildfire, causing his mouth to suddenly go dry. He felt exhilarated and heady all at once.

__

She burns, that one.

She stepped onto the dance floor once again as the tango began.

END CHAPTER TWO

Nota: I beg forgiveness for the lack of promptness in getting this up. I've been greatly distracted by one-shot fics and scholarship essays. Felt reinspired today for some reason and sat down and wrote almost the entirety of this chapter in one sitting. 

The song used is "Inevitable" by Shakira.

A few translations for those who are not familiar with Spanish. I'm not even that great at it.

__

canallos- boys

__

cantinera- barmaid

__

Conac-brandy

__

mi hermosa-my beauty

__

Eres tu-it is you

__

mierde-shit

__

Bebe-baby

__

Que-what


	3. Then, Passion

Then, Passion

They danced, possessing the floor completely. Their bodies pressed close, skin rubbing hotly against skin, sweat mingling together, hands touching and nails scraping over skin. His breath washed over her face as he pulled her roughly into his body and she tossed her curls back, staring up into his eyes.

They moved as one, neither caring for nor noticing the other patrons and dancers, who moved off to the side to watch their liquid movements. It was as if they had been created for the sole act of dancing together. Her heels echoed against the floor before disappearing into the static of appreciative murmurs. Her skirts alternately swirled about her and became tangled in her ever-moving legs, curling around sinuous muscles

Sweat beaded on his brow and upper lip; he could taste the saltiness as he breathed heavily. His hands, slick with it now, gripped her sides, guiding her needlessly through the motions. He heard nothing but the sound of his heart, their breathing, and the combined rhythm of their shoes on the hardwood floor. The music was unknown to him. He needed no beat, and neither did she. They were the dance, the rhythm, the music.

Sound came back to him as the dance ended, as he bent her lithe body backward over his arm, her hair brushing the scuffed floors. Applause thundered through the room, blending with the cacophony of glasses and conversation, of yelled orders and catcalls, all of it jumbled together suddenly out of the silence. He raised a hand to his forehead as they stood, staring at each other. His blood throbbed through his temples, red-hot and burning, a steady beat through the background of the raucous crowd.

She touched his arm, bringing him back to himself. "Are you alright?"

He forced a smile and slid his arm around her waist. "_Si_... just weary from the dance."

A smile mirrored itself on her face as she pressed close to him in his embrace. "You dance well, _senor_. It is rare to find such talent in our humble abode. You must allow me to reward you."

He smirked at this, guiding her through the crowd towards the bar to order two more drinks. "A reward, eh? Surely I do not dance well enough to have earned such a treasure." His hand stroked her side as he took a long drink from the glass set before him.

She laughed girlishly. "No, no, senor. After all, I cannot simply reward every handsome gentleman who happens to know how to dance. I would have no work, no money! But I am not stopping you from rewarding yourself." Her hand tangled in the fine hairs at the base of his neck, her nails scratching lightly against his skin and driving him mad.

His own fingers clutched at her waist as he sat down on a stood, pulling her forwards against his knees. "And how much would it cost," he growled softly, "to reward myself?"

She climbed atop his lap with almost feline ease, wrapping one arm lightly around his neck and placing her other hand atop his, drawing his hand up from her waist to brush against her breast. Then she leaned over and breathed an amount in his ear, following the price by a suggestive nip at his ear.

He turned his face to hers, his alcohol-moistened lips brushing against her painted cheek. "Sold," he breathed, a wash of liquor and sweat, then claimed her ruby mouth.

His kiss was hot and aggressive, pressing against tar-yellowed teeth with burning insistency. She allowed him to kiss her, to run his hands up and down her thinly-clad form, to slide his tongue between her make-up smeared lips. He pressed her back against the bar and pulled her close at the same time. _Between a rock and a hard place._ Though right now she wasn't sure which was which.

She was never one to do her work in public, and though there were no mattresses scattered through the less-than-reputable establishment, she was half-certain that her newest customer wasn't opposed to taking things to the floor in a moment. So after a few more moments, she pulled back from him and breathlessly murmured, "Upstairs."

Slowly, languidly, she slid to the floor, extending her hand to him. His eyes locked on her curvaceous form, he finished his drink and let himself be led from the bar. She took him up a winding staircase, her hips swaying seductively as he followed her wordlessly to one of the upper rooms.

***

She stopped outside one of the rooms half-way down the upstairs hallway and turned towards him. "Here we are," she purred, her hand snaking up the front of his shirt, cleverly undoing the buttons her fingers met.

He stepped forwards, pinning her against the wall. His hands slid down her sides to lift her up and she dutifully wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing her lips to his. His fingers moved restlessly over her body, slipping under the hem of her dress to caress the golden flesh. Her skin was like fire, and he caught flame at the touch of her, left quite without water to tame the inferno.

__

Like anyone would be  
I am flattered by your fascination with me  
Like any hot-blooded woman  
I have simply wanted an object to crave  


One hand reached back to clumsily open the door, and they tumbled inside, a mess of arms and legs and tongues and half-shed clothing. Blindly, they found the bed, collapsing on it in a sweat-slicked mass. Pillows were scattered along with scraps of clothing and fingers kneaded into threadbare sheets, clutching at them and at each other in the darkness.

Soft gasps were swallowed by the night and carried away as the flames subsided, leaving room for the stark cold of morning.

***

Dawn shed its unwelcome light on the pair entangled in the bed. The Argentinean awoke with a start and an even greater surprise at finding the woman still in his arms. He had spent the night. It had been a great many years since he had stayed the whole night with a woman- gone to bed with her and woken with her still there. He had always left after the lovemaking; had always been out on the streets before the sheets had even grown cold.

But the raven-haired woman was the same creature he had paid for the night before. She lay with her back to him, curls falling over copper skin in tousled waves. He rolled to his side, looking down on her as she slept. She was flawless, he discovered, her skin unmarred save for the markings he himself had made a few hours previously. Unthinking, he traced a thumb over her cheek, his digit coming away still slightly pink from her rouge. Most of it had come off in the night, revealing the woman beneath rather than the seductress that had been painted on. The result was lovely.

Many prostitutes required the benefits of their makeup to hide flaws and to cover up homeliness and to make the unattractive desirous. She needed none of this. Her lips were a pale carmine, her cheeks slightly flushed beneath their shading. The only defect was the circles that lined her eyes, the consequence of sleepless nights and overworked days.

She stirred at his touch, dark lashes fluttering open from hazel eyes before they widened in brief fear. Then, recalling where she was, her body relaxed. She turned on her back, drawing her legs up in mock-modesty, and smiled up at him. "Morning."

"Morning."

She blinked against the intrusion of morning's light. "You're still here." It was a strange concept, to have a lover that stayed the night, lingering in her bed. She had never known such a thing, having come a virgin to the life of the underworld.

He chuckled softly. "I am." A yawn stretched his mouth, lips still stained from her own, and rolled from the bed. She stared after him, her eyes taking in his tanned skin, the muscles bunching and stretching beneath the surface as he collected his clothes and fetched a robe from the corner to hand to her without knowing why he did it. She took it silently, wrapping it around her nakedness as a barrier from the cold seeping through the window.

Once he had dressed and washed his face in the basin on the other side of the room, he turned back to her. She had, by that time, gotten to her feet to collect the pile of money on the nightstand and hide it away before perching on the side of the bed to watch him leave.

She seemed so young now, innocent save for the way the robe fell open to reveal a flash of cleavage. His brow furrowed, and some voice inside him told him to leave now, to leave before he desired her again. _Too late._

His hand lay on the doorknob as they faced each other.

__

But you, you're not allowed  
You're uninvited  
An unfortunate slight

"_Adios, mi angel_." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. They hung in the air between them like a foul taste. And then he was gone, heavy footsteps echoing down the hall and fading away as he descended the stairway.

She shivered in the cold and drew the robe more tightly round herself before standing and moving to the window. Her hand quickly pulled the thick curtain, plunging the room back into semi-darkness before returning to the bed and crawling beneath the sheets.

They still smelled like him.

***

He managed to stay away from brothel for nearly a week, managed to impede his footsteps from going near there again. But he couldn't keep her out of his mind, no matter how he tried.

He threw back another drink before setting the glass down with a bang and motioning for more. He knew from experience how much liquor he could handle. Then again, he had also thought that he could handle himself with women.

There, he had been proven wrong. She haunted him like an apparition sent from Hell. Even now, he could feel her fingers on him, touching him in just the right way, caressing, burning.

__

She burns, that one.

Another drink burned down his throat, and his fingers curled at the sensation, nails digging into the burnished wood of the counter. And there was another burning... desire... as he remembered her, saw her lying beneath him in the smoky darkness, then beside him in the onslaught of morning light.

__

Must be strangely exciting  
To watch the stoic squirm

He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply from it, feeling the nicotine enter his bloodstream and calm him. Exhaling, the smoke surrounded him, and he was once again in the brothel, watching girls pass from beneath wreaths of smoke.

And from that smoke she emerged, still in white, stark against the grime, pure against the filth. An angel. Surely they had taken her wings from her and kept them hidden away, making her dance and love for their safe return.

He took another drag and let the plume wrap around him, making his vision hazy and easier to escape into.

She danced again for him, writhing snake-like with the fingers of smoke. No. She was the smoke, drifting on a breeze, hot and sultry, eyes like embers, burning, calling him, lips lava-red, burning red.

__

She burns, that one.

He let out a pained curse as the fag burned down too low, singeing his fingers. Stubbing out the cigarette, he stood, unsteady for a moment, and exited out into the night.

***

Finding his way back to the brothel was the easy part. Stepping through the door was what troubled him. He wasn't entirely sure why he had come. He could go to any brothel, any street corner, to satisfy his lust. But he had come here... had returned her... returned to her. He had never gone to a woman twice, never had the desire to. Once had always sated him before.

What had she done to him?

This would be it. He would not return again after this. There were other women... hundreds of them. He would not need her again. He would see... her mystery would be gone this time, the charms broken now that she had been despoiled. It was a waste of his time and money to even attempt it again.

And yet he could not convince himself to turn around. 

So he did the only thing he could. He entered the brothel.

It was the same as before, smoky, with hints of opium in the stale air, the music too loud, the alcohol flowing too freely. Bella was there again, working the bar and the customers, and he turned away quickly, losing himself in the crowd and searching... searching.

She was not dancing. A moment later, he caught sight of her in a corner, flirtatiously propositioning a greying man in his forties. She was not wearing white tonight, but a deep red with an even deeper neckline. His eyes locked on her and he knew, somehow knew, that even this would not be enough for him, that he would need more of her touch, of her kisses. He craved it now, craved the feel and smell and taste of her. He longed to flood his senses with her until sleep took him. 

__

Like any uncharted territory  
I must seem greatly intriguing  
You speak of my love like  
You have experienced love like mine before

He moved towards her, through the drunken patrons and prostitutes, pushing through until he reached them, reached her. He gave the elder man a dark gaze as he stepped between them. "Roxanne," he greeted her.

She looked startled momentarily but regained her smooth composure. "_Buenas noches_, _senor_. You missed me?"

"_Oh, si, si_," he breathed, his hand dropping to her waist, fingering the delicate bone beneath the thin layers of material and skin. "I need you. _Este noche_. _Ahora_." His voice was tinged in desperation. He needed to have her again and be rid of her. He could not go on like this.

She nearly shrank away from his touch. He should not be here... he was like the others. They had come back, had begged her. They had even offered her an escape, marriage, a life. To all of this she had said no.

__

But this is not allowed  
You're uninvited  
An unfortunate slight

And here was another one. She should have known. It was too late now. He was lost, like the others. She started to pull away, to disentangle herself from her, to make an excuse that she must go. He would leave in the end. They always had.

But there was something in his eyes that stopped her, made her turn back. What would one more night hurt?

She bit her lip, tasting the colour there, as her eyes searched his. What was she doing?

__

I don't think you unworthy  
I need a moment to deliberate

__

"You're still here."

"Wear gloves."

"You must allow me to reward you."

"We have a dance! A tango."

"You're still here."

She raised her eyes to his and reached for his hand. "Come," she whispered. "One more time."

END CHAPTER THREE

Nota: Again, apologies for the time between posts. But I was simply not inspired, and this is a story that needs inspiration to turn out the way I intend. I am particularly pleased with the way this chapter turned out, and hope you liked it as well.

The song used was "Uninvited" by Alanis Morissette. My apologies to those non-fans of her.

Translations:

Este noche- Tonight

Ahora- Now


End file.
